Tournament

In the event, one defeated and killed
another. The sky wept. Convenient
as that sounds. Like someone sweeping the floor.
A cripple climbing then descending stairs.
Or a dog following the killer’s scent.
The victim. So much was loosed on the world.

Where do killers go to kill the willing?
for one may kill if they do not die young.
Only two spar where there is but one slave.
She goes home with the victor to make love
a duel. Only fitting for one who weeps
in the morning after his restless sleep.

Fast forward millennia to a war.
A young man, a brave one, fights on a field
far away. If he stayed home, he’d be weird,
do dope, drink, sleep late, never be aware
what he misses now he will reap later,
though he knows, too, there is no end to war.

Who does not prefer to remember those
no one could know? To whom nothing happens.
They live if they leave early. It is late,
others like him are wandering the streets.
They have guns. They give him a knife. He kills
quickly. There are too many guns. He falls.

In real life men are locked into cages
until one is dead. When the gate opens,
nothing is the same. He finds his mother
if he dies. He never had a father
if he wins. He knows a woman, a man,
not some god, carries us into old age.

(16 May 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander